


The Days, The Nights, The Left, The Right

by Thunderrrstruck



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Adulting, F/M, I feel lame, Lawyers, Paperwork, Slice of Domesticity, Working things out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderrrstruck/pseuds/Thunderrrstruck
Summary: Karen Vick oversees all the arrests the SBPD makes. Her husband, Richard Vick, is the lawyer on one of her biggest cases yet. And he just so happened to be hired by the defence.[Set vaguely Season 4-ish.]
Relationships: Karen Vick/Richard Vick
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	The Days, The Nights, The Left, The Right

**Author's Note:**

> I feel weirdly anxious about posting this, more so than any other piece I've done. But I have to get this out of my system before I go crazy trying to prefect it. Hope you like it :)
> 
> This was inspired by watching The Judge (2014) and the first Psych movie back-to-back.

Karen unlocks her front door and steps inside with a hopeful call announcing her presence She pauses a second, waiting to hear the usual grind of wooden chair legs on the hardwood floor. When it greets her ears, she smiles and resumes sliding her coat off to hang on the rack.

Shouldering her backpack again, she steps into the kitchen with a sigh. Riachard is standing on the other side of the marble-topped peninsula, gathering the last of his papers together before he looks up to greet Karen.

“Tough day?” he asks. His eyes flick between her and his work.

“Try this whole week,” she amends. She sets down her bag in one of the available chairs, knowing fully well that she’d eventually have to find it a proper resting place, but as long as she can glean a few moments without the weight of work on her shoulders, she is convinced that it will be fine.

“Massage?” Richard offers, echoing the current desire of her mind perfectly.

“Yes, please,” she says out loud. Soon, his hands are on her shoulders and she feels them begin to work out the knots.

“Wow, like stones,” he mutters after a couple seconds of kneading. “Your consultant acting up again?”

It takes a few seconds to remember what they were talking about, the massage being much too good for her for much concentration.

“Surprisingly, not this time,” she says. “Just some pains from Town Hall, one of my detectives, and a crap ton of evidence to sort out…” She trails off, unwilling to undo any of the glorious work her husband put into the massage by reminiscing on all the work she has cut out for her yet. She may have a couple remaining things to touch base on, but she pushes it until later on in her schedule. Pushing it off is not something she enjoys, however, Karen prefers to spend what time she can with her daughter. The girl has it hard enough as it is, what with two working parents.

Speaking of which, Karen catches sight again of Richard’s work with the corner of her eyes. It doesn’t take someone on the other end of the legal system, or even another lawyer, to understand what a huge stack of papers means. Unfortunately, given her husband’s career, it isn’t an uncommon sight to come home to.

“I see you have a big case,” she makes note.

She can feel his thumbs briefly halt on her neck. “Uh, yeah, something like that,” he says. “Reviewing some old cases. You know the deal.”

She does not, in fact, “know the deal” he means. As far as statements go, his was vague at best. One does not spend most of their life on the force and end up  _ not _ picking up valuable interrogation skills. However, she is much too mentally beat to chase a real answer out him tonight.

“Sounds like you could use a massage, too,” she comments.

“I wouldn’t  _ mind _ ,” he says as he relents the pressure of his hands, giving room for Karen to turn around to face him

“Well, you have until I’m back from the bathroom to make up your mind.”

∆ ∆ ∆

At seven in the evening, Karen follows her nose down the hall into the kitchen. Keen on her husband’s cooking but forced to wait until it finishes, she busies herself with tidying the dinner table. Most of the papers to move are Richard’s, although a few of hers have ended up in the mix for some unknown reason. She organises the papers into separate stacks according to who they are for, for the most part not paying attention to the words on the page (she needs some food in her first before she can focus on something like this).

Just as she’s done shuffling the pages together, she moves to the living room to place them on the coffee table but ends up scanning the first page half out of its relative position to her and half out of curiosity. After all, it isn’t a crime to want to know what cases her husband is working on. That’s when she catches a name in the bottom-right corner. The arresting officer:

_ Juliet O’Hara _ , it reads.

Her curiosity doubles. But she can hear two sets of footsteps in the hallway – a heavy and a light – and knows now is not the time to satisfy the mental itch. She drops the paper where it came from and settles at the dining room table.

Dinner is an ordeal mostly between Richard and three-year-old Iris. She chirps on about preschool while Karen merely listens and nods. She tries to pay her daughter with rapt attention, however part of her continues to ponder the casefile. It was only a matter of time before her husband picked up a defending case from one of her very own detectives, but it is such an odd clash of worlds. If she is remembering correctly, Richard has never met her current staff (save for the one time she and him ran into McNab as they were getting coffee). What began purely because of two people’s very intensive jobs keeping them too occupied to mingle during work has since morphed into a habit of keeping work and home life separate. At the station, she is simply Chief Vick. Any interactions with anyone she holds strictly in a professional capacity. At home, she is Karen Vick, first and foremost a mother and wife. She usually succeeds in maintaining a barrier between her two worlds, but she cannot deny the juiciness of a casefile, the intrigue behind the top page. The answer to the question: which of O’Hara’s cases?

After dinner, she catches an opportunity to be alone in the living room. She treads lightly towards the stack she made earlier and picks up the entire file. Her eyes scan from top to bottom.

Richard had said nothing about working with a client, let alone one facing charges of armed robbery. Yet here in her hands rests proof that he lied.

_ Why? _ Karen finds herself thinking. She is nothing if not professional. She can handle watching her husband’s career from the sidelines, even with her involvement; she’s seen him work cases before.

_ It doesn’t mean he will win _ , part of her thinks hopefully. But who is she kidding? She sees him work. He is as thorough and sharp-minded as they come.

She hopes it is okay in this instance to not support her betrothed. She hopes it’s okay to wish he loses.

∆ ∆ ∆

“You okay? You’ve been acting weird.”

Karen turns away from the mirror and looks at the man on the other side of the bed. She finishes unclasping her last earring before adding it to her palm where the other one already lies. She manages a small chuckle, hoping some lighthearted mannerisms might ease up on the scrutiny. When they married, she signed up for potentially having this kind of situation crop up again. She survived the first time; she can survive this.

_ There really shouldn’t be a situation here... _

“I’m fine,” she utters.

Richard chuckles, “Wow, my massage earlier really didn’t help, did it?”

She laughs alongside him as they crawl under the covers.

“I still appreciated it,” she reassures.

There are so many things she appreciates about Richard Vick. On most days, she can even appreciate his job. However, her mind harps on the murder trail even now as she reaches forward to click off the lamp. She feels an arm drape over her shoulder and pull her close, and as she puts a hand on his in security, all she can think about is how honesty is the lifeblood of a relationship. How today does not seem to be a prime example.

_ Still _ , she thinks.  _ He must have a reason for not telling me about the file. Does he think I can’t handle knowing who he’s representing? _

Funny, how darkness consumes everything in the room except for the worries running rampant in her head.

Her worries amplify.

It takes her an hour to fall asleep.

∆ ∆ ∆

The easiest way to keep herself distracted at work is through frequent trips to the coffee maker. So by the time she calls her detectives and consultants to a meeting in her office, she is about as amped as any one person can be. She berates Spencer’s antics sooner than usual, and she cuts across O’Hara’s informative ramblings before realising what is being said. The four of them fall into an uneasy silence, and although Karen feels some remorse for her snappish attitude, she can’t muster up the energy to apologise.

She softens her tone enough to be considered civil when she says, “Just make sure it’s a thorough investigation.”

“Chief, look who you’re talking to,” Spencer replies, sounding a tad too grandiose for a man of his fast-and-loose mannerisms.

Karen settles a glare nicely between his eyes. “Air. Tight,” she enunciates.

“Capiche, Boss. We won’t let you down.” Always bouncing back easily, he and Guster turn on the spot. She wishes she could believe that.

The presences in the corner of her eye drag her attention their way. She raises an eyebrow at her two detectives.

“What are you still doing here, Detectives? Go!”

With perplexed faces, they glance at each other, then back at her.

“Won’t let you down, Chief!” Lassiter promises for the both of them before they make for the exit. Once they leave, she sinks into her chair, realising just how deep her emotions are running. She spares occasion glances through her office windows at each passing officer, each working officer, each breaking officer, and wonders just how many of their cases might be taken down through one session in a courtroom. Sure, she sees it happen at least once a year – either someone’s charges get reduced or evidence is deemed insufficient or the jury is swayed through charm and presentation – so why is this instance bothering her?

Does she believe the suspect arrested is guilty?

Does she believe her husband can defend him adequately?

She does not need to consciously confirm the answers.

The knowing in her gut provides her with all the headache she can tolerate.

“I need another cup of coffee,” she mutters.

∆ ∆ ∆

As mighty as three mugs of caffeine can become of you, the lows which follow are the most fearful. Karen knows how to work through a coffee crash, but after years in her chosen career, she still does not enjoy doing so. No one does.

She stands at the stove, stirring a pot. It’s her turn to make dinner, which she started half an hour ago, just before Richard left to pick up Iris from daycare. She hears the front door open and two sets of voices filter through the hallway – one rambling at a high-pitch, the other replying with hearty rumbles. Karen smiles before throwing a glance over her shoulder.

She spies Richard rounding the corner, Iris in his arms. The girl wriggles once she sees her mom, so Karen moves over to say hello.

“How was your day, sweetie?” she says to her daughter.

“I got paint in my hair,” Iris giggles.

“How did  _ that _ happen?”

“Paint fight,” Iris accounts, this time sheepishly, and buries her head in Richard’s shoulder.

He presses his cheek against the top of her head while looking at Karen. “We’re gonna have to get you into the bath,” he decides.

“I think that’s best,” she agrees. “Dinner will be ready when you’re done.”

She spares a quick kiss for her husband, while Iris is distracted with the excitement of dinner. They whisk off for the bathroom.

As soon as she’s left alone, thoughts about the case resurface. She waits for a moment where it’s just the two adults to confront Richard about his deception, but until Iris is tucked into bed, the opportunity never strikes.

The course of the evening takes them in the same direction as usual – one of them sorting through papers, the other packing away dinner leftovers. She slides a plastic tub of pasta into the bottom shelf of the fridge, when she pauses.  _ Iris is asleep _ , she notes,  _ it’s just the two of us now _ .

The best way to solve a problem is to confront it.

She begins casually: “So, how long do you think the trail will last?”

He freezes but doesn’t look up. “What trial?”

“The…” Karen glances down the hallway, at the end of which is Iris’ room, and drops her volume. “The murder one.” Her eyes narrow. “Why did you lie about it?”

His head remains down as he replies, “Because I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Do you think I can’t be professional about our  _ jobs _ ?” she is quick on the shoot-back. Standing motionless in the kitchen, she observes as Richard freezes, squares his shoulders, and finally faces her.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“Look, Karen,” he begins. “Remember how we met? It doesn’t fully give me the confidence I need to, you know… tell–”

“ _ Tell _ me things? Rich, not only was that years ago, but we weren’t married then. We are now.”

“And fortunately, since then, I’ve never had to defend someone you put away since! Or someone you work closely with. I know how closely you think of your detectives.”

Karen’s mouth stands agape.

“And I get that, but it’s a  _ murder _ charge.” Her voice drops again before saying ‘murder’. (Being a parent and needing to censor herself can be  _ exhausting _ .)

His expression is all the  _ “So?” _ she needs to continue.

“That man’s guilty,” she insists. After studying the trail of evidence, after watching her junior detective work tireless hours tracking down the son of a bitch, what is left is no room for doubt.

“It’s my job!” he defends. “I get hired, and I represent the clients. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

There is a tense silence enveloping them. Then, Karen utters something she regrets as soon as she realises what she is really asking him to do: “What if you, don’t try as hard?”

“You know why,” is all he says before turning away. “I’m going to clean up before bed.”

With that, he is gone, leaving Karen to be fully aware of the line she crossed.

∆ ∆ ∆

“Sulking” is not exactly in her personality. But she’s definitely doing something akin to definition all throughout her morning jog. She is definitely doing something akin to it while she kisses Iris good morning. She lifts herself off the edge of the bed to prepare for the dawning day, except she pauses before she exits.

One look at Iris, and everything feels so inconsequential.

Out into the hall, she pads in her socks until from her vantage point, she sees the figure standing in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee.

Richard, upon noticing her entrance, is the first to say anything, although he barely looks up. “Hey, honey.”

Seeing him reminds her just how unfair she was the other night. Of the things she appreciates about him, his work ethic and his thoroughness are top tier, and at the end of the day, the thing she is truly worried about is not the fact of who he’s representing, is not the significant tie she has to the arresting officer; it is the possibility that her department made a mistake.

So, she has to be the one to apologise first. Despite her stubborn mind writhing at the thought, she shuts it off one moment and allows her heart blurt out the line

“I’d like to apologise about last night.”

He lowers his mug. And then he says something Karen would not have expected:

“Just you?"

She blinks her confusion. “Yeah, who else?” she asks through a dry laugh.

“I was about to say the same thing,” he clarifies, “but, by all means, go first.”

He said it in the same ‘lighthearted-but-not-joking’ way she’s used to, and knowing he’s to usual mannerisms relieves an entire burden from her shoulders already.

She drags out a stool from underneath the counter’s overhang and settles on its cushion before her fiery willpower can pull her away. To be in a relationship meant to compromise. So she better do this, before the sun is fully up, before her routine jog, before either of them part ways for work and the will just gets harder to muster.

“I was in Iris’ room, when I realised just how  _ silly _ I sounded the other day,” she pushes her explanation. “We both have things we have to do. My department’s not perfect.” It’s something she forces herself in the moment to come to terms with; seeking perfection is, after all, a fool’s errand. “And I understand. I don’t like the idea of sending an innocent person to prison, either.”

Richard reaches across the counter top to rest a hand over one of Karen’s. 

“You still lied about it.”

“I know,” he starts, “I should have trusted you to handle it. But I was scared.”

She gives his hand a squeeze.

“So, we’re good, then?” ponders Richard.

“I’d think we are,” she reassures before scooting the stool back and moving for the fresh coffee in the pot. As she pours, she feels a hand on her shoulder. She leans into the body it belongs to with a smile on her face. The thing about them is they always find their way to the same page. About dinner or about job responsibilities, they’re never mad at each other for long.

And speaking of responsibilities, Karen detaches herself enough to look over at Richard; “Don’t forget, it’s your turn for dinner today.”


End file.
